


Aim Your Arrow at the Sky (I'm so Tired Now)

by Lorinand_Lost (Barefoot_Dancer)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celegorm's ability to speak with animals, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Horses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barefoot_Dancer/pseuds/Lorinand_Lost
Summary: "The bees in the west field hum, star-wife, clay-shaper, the bright babe of scarlet mother hears the wind-whisper of little things."Character-study of Celegorm
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	Aim Your Arrow at the Sky (I'm so Tired Now)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for stand-up-and-fight-daleks on tumblr!
> 
> This was for the 2019 Tolkien Secret Santa, and I posted it on tumblr, but totally forgot to post it here. I'd been meaning to post it since forever but I haven't. 
> 
> Song from Florence and the Machine's "Sky Full of Song."
> 
> While there is some mild gore, it's not detailed.

The little one is in the vegetable garden, cloth-swaddled, brilliant-haired. He inches beneath the fruit vines, out under the humid canopy of gourd leaves. A mole he catches; it wiggles the moist star on its nose, sable fur dappled in tree-light. _Dirt-digger, brother-mine._

And the little one whispers, r _oot-feeder, brother-mine,_ and he turns him loose to burrow. 

The leaves part and his mother’s face appears. As mothers do, she wipes berry juice from his cheeks, gives a scolding for his clever escape. Back into her shawl he is wrapped. 

The bees in the west field hum, _star-wife, clay-shaper, the bright babe of scarlet mother hears the wind-whisper of little things._

* * *

The old forest is ancient-dark, loam-rich, and the air is full of the creakings of the mossy, the time-bent. The little one is now a childling, taller than the sword ferns and shorter than the elderberry. 

_Little-water-swimmer_ , the brook gurgles. The childling drinks, and the water is clear and sweet. 

With a leap he's an arrow, a ray of light, and he's reached the lowest branch of the spruce. A third of the way up, he finds a nest, four pale blue eggs, and the disgruntled parents, fretful and feathered.

_Egg-eater_ , whistle the wood thrush in their woven home, _Bird-catcher_.

He climbs to where the branches are whip-willow thin and the sun lances through the needles, to where the wind whispers.

* * *

Deep in the wood, there is shadow, under beech and oak of interminable age. Everywhere is covered in their leaves, and everywhere not covered by leaves, in a deep moss. The childling is now a youth, tall and lean, his gold hair braided back. He carries his spear, ash-haft, heart-finder. The youth kneels, feeling the moss. The hare has come this way, light-footed, liquid-eyed. 

And there it is in the underbrush, and there the youth lunges in pursuit. Then everything blurs in a dizzying, frenetic sprint, and he is a boy, and he is the hare, and then he has it by it's haunches. It goes still, looking at him with one golden eye, sides heaving. _Fleet-foot, danger-tooth_ , and as a plea, _brother-mine_. The youth feels another set of eyes on him, and looks up slowly.

In the clearing, in the heart of the forest, there is a stag standing in a shaft of light. There is ivy in his antlers, and then he is a man. In a breath, the shade of a deer, gleaming bone and wet sinew. And then a man again, with the stag's head. He moves between these aspects as he says in a voice as old as time, _boy-prince, swift-runner, come you now a-hunting?_

The youth lowers his spear. _Forest-lord, monsters-bane, Oromë_.

_Gather for me the waltalís nectar from their cliff-face hives, and you may join my wild-hunt_.

~~~

Around in a circle are the other Huntsmen. They bear torches, stamp to the beat of a hide drum, sing in a tongue that sounds like the running hare, the charging boar, a diving hawk. Oromë stands at their head, motionless; he has taken the form of a man, dark skinned, braids capped with bone beads. 

There is a wind in the cliffs, and the old harvesting ropes groan. Overhead, the bees whir and circle lazily. In one hand, the youth holds the harvesting basket, in the other, a long wood shaft tipped with a blade. He seeks purchase on the ropes with his knees, his bare feet, toes white-knuckled to the jute. He begins to climb. 

Inching his way to the top is slow, and grueling. The youth is cold from the sweat-damp tunic that clings to his chest, and the ground is dizzying down below. The bees grow louder. _Flightless-brother, knife-bearer._ They spiral down from their nests, humming around him, alighting on his clothing and on his bare skin. The youth can feel their little feet as they bump their way over his breast bone and into his tunic, their gossamer wings across the eyelids that he screws closed. 

When he can hear the hive above him, he raises the long blade to cut. The bee-music swells. _elixir-thief._ And they bite him, quick flashes of pain that bloom and burn. They bite at his exposed feet, the youth cries out, tethering himself into the ropes tighter. Now they crawl across his lips, and he locks them shut; they carry with them their sticky and bewildering nectar, made from the cliff flowers that give visions and heat and euphoria.

But they do not stop biting him, and in anguish he cries _shining-wings, sister-mine, Queen, I beseech thee!_ The nectar is in his mouth now, and there is a fire behind his eyelids and in the sky as the sun sets. It is bitter, it is sweet, and he burns. And the queen says, _take with care and temperence our madding-sweet, thee who speaks with little things_. The biting ceases, and the youth fills his basket. _Thanks-be, golden-daughter._

With his descent can hear a wild music, and the air moves in strange forms with languid intent. Below, he can see Oromë, and his head seems to shift between aspects - deer, decay, man - antlers grasping at the sky and weaving like vines.

When his feet hit the ground, the youth crumples. Oromë looms over him, washed in torchlight. _Turkafinwë you are, father-named for strength and pride_.

* * *

It is dark here, except for the fires burning on the northern horizon. The youth is of majority now, forest-hardened, valinor-soft. Below him in the valley, the goblin army, tortured-legion, unfortunate-brother. Under him shifts his horse, a dappled grey mare. She snorts, unsettled by the smell on the wind, puissance and suffering. _Gentle-girl,_ Turkafinwë murmurs, _peace-be_ , _safe I keep you_. She nickers, settling. 

When the ground-crawlers and night-wrigglers bring word that the orcs are in the Vale, Turkafinwë lights his torch. In a wave behind him, his men light theirs. There is the rolling sound of ringing steel being drawn, and then it is a hot-rush mad-scramble down the hillside. There is a shout in the air, and a wave of lights charge down into the orcs, who are night-blind with the sudden fire. 

Down past Eithel Sirion and into the Fens they are driven, hunted and harried by Turkafinwë and his men, splashing and stumbling into the salty water, muddied and bloodied by the horses' hooves. 

Their screaming sounds elvish. And their blood looks elvish as it streaks his blade and soaks into his hair. Some cry for mercy, some cry curses, some fall silently and their bodies relax into a peace cheated from them in life. Turkafinwë surges forward; for mercy, for vengeance, none will be spared here. 

Silence falls, except for the groans of the wounded. Overhead, the carrion birds wheel. _Brother-hunter, fearsome-fighter_ , _blood-glutted you are, and now we fall to feast._ The spirit of Alqualondë is in the air, or maybe it is just the smell of the sea. In the water, elvish hair and orcish hair appear identical. 

Tyelkormo he is by mothers-wisdom, the hasty-riser, hot-blooded. 

* * *

Snake's-brother Orodreth names him, lie-smith, brutish-betrayer. Turned out from Nargothrond in the dead of night. He mourns Huan, and his brother mourns his son; both are living dead, and neither will see their loved one again on this side of the sea. They are shades in the forest. They hide in the day, and travel at night as traitors under a sliver of moon. They seek their brothers' company. 

The birds gossip about him, the beasts ignore him. He hunts for food, and his prey fall with baleful glares and die inelegantly, and he can hear them cursing him. 

He is not Turkafinwë, he is not Tyelkormo, he is Celegorm in this new language that he speaks poorly and of which understands little, and silence is now his friend. 

* * *

In that blood-haze, in those dark caves lit with glittering lamps, he can feel that familiar oath-madness creeping at the tips of his bones. 

Behind him, there is a cry, and he turns to see Caranthir with an arrow sprouting from his jugular. On the causeway above him is Nimloth holding a great yew bow. Celegorm screams like it's his throat in which the arrow is burried, like a panicked horse, like a she-wolf protecting her pups. From his belt, he frees his last dagger. Willing it to fly like a bird, that Oromë and his teachings haven't quite abandoned him, he looses it. His aim is true, and the Queen of Doriath falls. 

A scream rings in answer to Celegorm, ripping from the throat of Nimloth's human husband. King Dior charges him, broadsword raised. When their swords meet, all else falls away. Celegorm is dimly aware of the tears on Dior's cheeks, and that he is crying as well. He thinks he can kill this man, who is only human, but when Curufin falls with a groan, Celegorm's world freezes. He is too late to block Dior's blade, which slides through his breast plate like cold fire. He coughs blood, grabbing onto Dior's pauldrons to support himself. But in Dior's hasty fury, Celegorm's sword has also found its mark. The light leaves the man's eyes, and he and Celegorm fall as one. 

The cold seems to spread from the wound, racing across his body and relieving Celegorm of his oath-madness. He cannot push the blade free, but he does have the strength to pull Caranthir toward him, to roll Curufin into his lap. Celegorm listens as their breathing slows, as they go limp in his arms. Now, with bloody faces and sightless eyes, they look younger than they have since departing Valinor. 

At last, he too can rest. Cold darkness comes to claim him, rolling over him like a wave.

* * *

When Celegorm awakes, there is fog, and out of the fog come gleaming eyes. A pack of wolves ring him, and they speak with Namo's voice. _Welcome-be, kinslayer, oath-keeper_.

_Well-met, doomsman, spirit-master_ , Celegorm whispers. 

The wolves close in on him, and he draws in on himself. When they savage his body, he thrashes out, and then realizes that the wounds close almost instantly. This must be his punishment, he realizes: eternal torment, unbroken by death or the oblivion of the void to which he had promised his soul, but from which he had apparently been saved to experience this fresh hell. 

The wolves speak with Namo's voice, naming him _prideful-child, headstrong-hunter_ and they tear at his arms.

The wolves speak with his little brothers' voices, naming him _failed-caretaker,_ and in his father's, _oath-breaker_ , and they rip at his legs.

The wolves speak with the young voices of Elured and Elurin, naming him _butcher-brethren, child-murderer_ , and they rend at the soft meat of his belly.

The wolves speak with Finrod's voice, melodious and terrible, naming him _cousin-killer, home-defiler_ and their teeth sink home in his throat.

One wolf nuzzles close to his throat, and says “ _hound’s-friend, brother-mine_ ,” and Celegorm begins to cry because that is Huan’s voice inside that wolf. 

And then the wolves speak in a new voice, and they name him: _hunter who is now prey, Turkafinwë; wrathful Tyelkormo; wretched Celegorm_. 

And Celegorm gasps, _this is my voice, Namo, you torture me with my own voice._

And they say, his blood dripping from their teeth, _of course we do, for we are you. So tell us, how do you name yourself?_

As Celegorm struggles between the heaving bodies and snapping jaws, he cries _I am a kinslayer and an oathmaker, I am a monster and a butcher!_ His head disappears beneath the sea of fur. _But I am also a third-brother and my people's defender, friend to little things and silent-hunter_! He surges upward, grasping the largest wolf around the neck. _Above all else, I am tired, and heart-sick, and I desire only restful darkness._

The wolf laughs. _You will have no rest, not here, not until the remaking of the world._ And everything goes dark. 

* * *

When Turkafinwë awakes, for the second time since his death and after an interminable age, there is sunlight. 

Turkafinwë sits up with a start. "I must be dreaming!" He shouts horsely, "You mock me, Mandos!"

"Can't stand the idea that you're one of the last of us to be released?" Curufin rises lazily from his seat under a tree. 

"Brother?" And then quietly, “how long have I been gone?”

"Mother says it's been about three thousand years."

“You said one of the last…” Celegorm says slowly. “Who else is left?”

“Maedhros, for starters,” says Curufin. “If I know our oldest brother at all, it’s more due to his prodigious capacity for self-recrimination and less to Mandos’ judiciary streak.”

“And father?” Celegorm asks, pretty sure he already knows the answer. 

“Well, look at it this way. When I was in the halls, I only ever saw visions of Celebrimor’s torment; how do you think it feels to have failed not one, but seven sons?”

Celegorm sighs. “What are we doing here, brother? Surely the council would rather condemn our souls to the void.”

Curufin laughs. “I think Manwe is something of an optimist. And I do remember one last thing from the halls - the shade of my son that I had conjured as my punishment told me before I was released that I would have no rest until the world is remade.”

Celegorm starts.

“We May have forgiven ourselves in the halls,” continues Curufin, “but out here, we must fight for the forgiveness of others. One individual seems like he wishes to be first in line.” 

The bushes behind him rustle, and out steps Huan. _Turkafinwë, brother-mine._ And he knocks headlong into Celegorm, who falls flat with a laughing face full of dog fur.

There are bees - which he can hear, but cannot see, because he is on his back looking up at the bluest sky imaginable. And the bees say _welcome-be to land-everlasting, son of Fëanor, he who hears the wind-whisper of little things_.

**Author's Note:**

> Waltalís - derived from walta (excite, rouse, wild) and lís (honey) in quenya.
> 
> Inspired by something I read once about traditional honey gatherers who climb up the side of a cliff to collect the honey made from a particular psychedelic flower.
> 
> Concerning the battle at the fens of serech, I headcanon that since the orcs began as elves that Sauron tortured and experimented upon, the first few generations are startlingly elf-like in appearance.
> 
> I like the idea of Mandos being the rehab of Valinor. They both serve time as penitence and learn to forgive themselves. So Namo’s brilliant idea is to have people overcome their self-hatred by handling their own punishment. Celegorm feels guilt over Finrod and his younger brothers, so he punishes himself with wolves until he’s all worn out and willing to forgive himself.


End file.
